


Poetic Licence

by Vandrerska



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: I'm definitely the only one who's ever gonna use that tag, It's Poetry Week in the Low Countries (30/01-5/02), M/M, My Tribute to Lady Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vandrerska/pseuds/Vandrerska
Summary: Calling in Lady Poetry as an intermediator for uncomfortable conversations, Professor Dumbledore?My dear, Albus, of the Dark Lady ye knoweth naught.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Poetic Licence

**Author's Note:**

> It's Poetry Week in the Low Countries (Flanders & The Netherlands) from January 30 until February 5.  
> To celebrate that event, I decided to let our beloved duo have a go at poetry.
> 
> Thanks to IhaveAbadfeelingAboutThis for being my beta. And my gamma. And my delta. (Basically the entire Greek alphabet.)
> 
> Also, if you're interested in what happens in the Dutch-speaking regions - poetically, linguistically or otherwise - feel free to check out www.the-low-countries.com
> 
> (PS: I do not own the characters nor that one line by Pavese.)

Gellert apparated, and without a second thought threw a Stupify that would immobilize anyone within a 500 metre radius. If Albus got knocked over too, so be it. After all, it had been his idea to meet in this wretched part of the world. Gellert was not going to be shot, nor was he planning on causing a fit of civil unrest on a quiet Saturday evening. The political situation in Ireland already was far too volatile for his liking, which is why he’d been avoiding the region entirely for the past decade. What use was it luring a fickle tornado into warming up to you, when you risked being swept off your feet yourself any minute?

And Albus ’I-close-my-twinkling-azure-blue-eyes-for-every-problem-right-in-front-of-my-crooked-nose-so-I-don’t-ever-have-to-intervene-or-choose-sides-but-can-stay-in-my-wretched-school-forever-benignly-smiling-to-whoever-does-want-to-tackle-the-issues’ Dumbledore chose to come here? In county Donegal, which meant as much as having dinner with the IRA. Or rather, the IRA having you for dinner.

Gellert saw a curious light flicker somewhere in the distance. He narrowed his eyes. The small light danced in the air, roughly a meter above the ground, as if radiating from a lantern hold by a small child. A will-o’-wisp. Gellert sighed. Apparently, Albus had managed to trick someone from the _aes sídhe_ , the fairies, into acting as his errand boy. Not surprisingly, really, the fairies being renowned tricksters, and Albus more than enough of trickster himself to match. Birds of a feather, Gellert thought grimly.

He followed the light through the rocky landscape of Donegal, until he reached a sort of plateau, overlooking the surrounding valleys. Albus was sitting in the rough grass, about ten meters away from him. He waved at Gellert.

Gellert stepped closer to Albus, until he stood at about an arm’s length, and looked down on that gently smiling face, framed by thick auburn curls. An eerie feeling came over him. Something wasn’t quite right. He felt… naked. He tried to cast a spell and found he couldn’t.

”Albus”, he growled, ”What kind of trap is this? I feel like a birds stripped of its feathers, like a fish whose scales have been scraped off.”

He cursed when he heard his own words. ”And what is this for nonsense? Why I am speaking like some poetaster about to shit a whole stream of metaphores and analogies?”

”Gellert, welcome to _Ciorcal Liag na Cúirte Éigse_ , the Stone Circle of the Bardic Court.”

”The actual stones themselves,” Albus continued when he saw Gellert’s eyes dart across the plain, ”are buried beneath a layer of soil and debris, this piece of land being converted to pasture for sheep in later centuries. But its remarkable properties remain. It’s the only stone circle I know of that to this day effectively prohibits the use of all magic within its boundaries. No physical violence can be used either. It’s rather remarkable.” He let his fingers trail through the long grass.

”The linguistic adjustment you’re experiencing is the other exciting idiosyncrasy of this circle. As it was mainly used by bards for literary discussions, everyone inside the circle is compelled to speak in a poetic way.”

Gellert cursed. ”Then why do you, o haughty one, seem to be exempt from this sanity-destroying obligation?” he snarled.

”The bards had the forethought to make an exception for literary criticism and meta-discussions, as they would otherwise get stuck in an never-ending poetic imagery loop.”

Albus chuckled. ”We’re lucky the circle’s notions of poetry managed to keep up with the current poetic developments. Merlin only knows how we’d survive an entire conversation in sonnets.”

”What’s this conversation meant to be about anyway?”

Suddenly, Albus refused to meet Gellert’s eyes. His fingers were fidddling with the grass again.

Now it was Gellert’s turn to smile, though his grin was far more cruel.

”You’d hoped the poetic phrasings and smoothly-spun sentences would make the truth less harsh, less painful, less dagger-like. Seems your understanding of poetry is as limited as the good-naturedness of a Pixie, my flailing phoenix.”

Albus flinched, but Gellert crouched in front of him, carrying on mercilessly.

”You’re the Avada to my Kevadra, Albus Dumbledore. It’s the truth, and it’s poetic, but does that render it less unsettling for you?”

”You’re the scream that ricochets up my nerves, Gellert.”

”Scream of pleasure or of pain, I wonder… Oh, that’s the whole scheme behind this, poetry allowing ample space for interpretation. My, Albus, as if we’ve ever been anything else than interpretation. Very well then, you’ve been a hernia, harrying my nerves so I can never quite hold the posture I prefer or carry out my plans without you nagging away at me.”

”You’re both my summer solstice and the dark night of my soul.”

”I only provided the torch for you to explore the dark caves of your heart, my dear.”

Albus jumped upright, enraged.

”You’re dust of a far-away desert that grinds and grates the wheels of my mind. You’re the wave that was never meant to come to shore. You’re a mirage and should have been halted at the gates of imagination.”

Gellert stood up slowly and gracefully.

”The day Death finally manages to touch my heart, Albus, he’ll have your eyes.” (1)

Albus stared at him, rage suddenly stuck in his throat. He felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

”But as long as I’m the Master of Death, I will make him worship you. I’ll pester time until he leaves you untouched. Only my fingers will be allowed to draw lines on your face, to make your body age, even when you refuse to give yourself to me any longer.”

Gellert’s fingers brushed briefly down Albus’ cheeks. Then he turned around and walked away. Albus thought Gellert would leave without another word, but then he heard a song rising up through the air, winding and curling like northern lights.

_When the time has come_  
_And the day’s long gone_  
_I will sing for you_  
_That eternal song_

_Of the guilt I see_  
_When you realise_  
_That you love a man_  
_Out of mirror-land_

_That you’ve set your heart_  
_to another’s drum_  
_That you pace your step_  
_to another’s tune_

_And the grand regret_  
_And the jump you make_  
_And the thrill you get_  
_From the risk you take_

_I will sing for you_  
_Till my voice is cold_  
_Till my love wears thin_  
_And this song feels old_

_Then you’ll have to choose_  
_Will you come with me_  
_Through the golden door_  
_To eternity_

_Now, my man of snow_  
_Will you melt for me_  
_Will you free your heart_  
_From this agony_

_Or refuse to come_  
_Rather splinch your soul_  
_Than obey the one_  
_Who makes you whole_

Gellert cast one final look around at Albus, took a last step forward, and vanished, the final sounds of the song echoing between the valleys.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) I' m afraid I can’t take all the credit for this one. Check out the wonderful ‘Verrà la morte e avrà il tuoi occhi’ by Cesare Pavese.  
> https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/verr-la-morte-e-avr-i-tuoi-occhi-death-will-come-and-have-your-eyes/


End file.
